


Jam Tomorrow?

by Schmiezi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Childhood Memories, Cooking, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Original Character(s), Past Relationship(s), Post-Season/Series 03, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5570533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schmiezi/pseuds/Schmiezi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is cooking. Literally. There are many who think that even making toast is a riddle to him and he has worked hard to establish that impression. But the truth is that he is quite an excellent cook. Because really, cooking is just applied chemistry, right?</p><p>He just does not cook very often.</p><p>Because there is a funny connection in his brain that has caused preparing food being linked to loving someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jam Tomorrow?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raven Morgan Leigh](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Raven+Morgan+Leigh).



> Dear RavenMorganLeigh,  
> this is your fic. Your wonderful prompt was:
> 
> What would you like to read? Character pieces, angst, Johnlock, Vicklock (Victor has to be a nice guy), Bottom! Sherlock!, John-leaves-Mary-for-Sherlock. Mary finally gets hers. 
> 
> What is your deal breaker when you read? GOOD Mary! :-D Blaming Sherlock fics. John-as-parent fics. Top! Sherlock. Alpha! Sherlock. Parentlock. Sherlock as Drug Fiend. 
> 
> What is your prompt?  
> Forgiveness, understanding, scars and memories.
> 
> I picked a few of your ideas. You will see that I used your key words without mentioning them. I hope you like the result.

Sherlock Holmes is cooking. Literally. There are many who think that even making toast is a riddle to him and he has worked hard to establish that impression. But the truth is that he is quite an excellent cook. Because really, cooking is just applied chemistry, right?

He just does not cook very often.

Because there is a funny connection in his brain that has caused preparing food being linked to loving someone.

*** 

He was in primary school when he developed an innocent crush on Matt Fielding. Matt had fair hair, a radiant smile,and a mother who seemed to believe he liked cheese sandwiches. So every morning, Sherlock insisted on making his own sandwiches, put turkey on them or tuna or cucumbers and traded them for Matt's cheese sandwiches.

Sherlock disliked cheese sandwiches but the smile on Matt's face made the deal worthwhile.

The innocent crush came to an abrupt end when Sherlock found the courage to sniff at Matt's hair and found out that his affection was not mutual. The following two and a half years at primary school were even less tolerable than before.

*** 

The chicken is already in the oven, the soup is set aside for later. Time to prepare the Mousse au chocolate. A bit of a cliché, that, but the perfect choice for today. Sherlock had considered making double chocolate profiteroles with salted caramel cream or Clementine, cranberry and pistachio meringue wreath but in the end decided against them. They would not be appreciated as much as a plain mousse.

*** 

When Daddy brought home the little puppy Mummy had serious doubts that it would survive. "It's too young," she said, But Daddy had just rescued it from drowning inside a bag and insisted on trying to coddle it up.

Mycroft lectured then on the improbability of survival. Sherlock instead named it Redbeard and called a vet to find out how to nurture him while the rest of the family was still debating. He cooked him everything the vet as told him, five times a day, and Redbeard thrived. He never loved any of the other family members as much as he loved Sherlock. The feeling was quite mutual.

*** 

Preparing Mousse au chocolate is a lot easier than most people believe. All you need is a good egg beater, lots of cream and a lithe arm. For only fools use their wrist to whip cream.

With a little luck, Sherlock would need the strength in his wrist for something completely different later on.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Don't get ahead of yourself, he told himself sternly. It is only dinner.

*** 

At uni, Sherlock fell for a student named Dave. He had red curly hair and a vision. To be honest, Sherlock never grasped what vision it had been. Something about feeding the world with the help of folk songs.

Dave played the guitar and sang to it and criticized Sherlock for playing the tunes of the establishment on his violin.

When Dave visited Sherlock the first time, he was served a decent meal based on noodles and chicken.

In return, he gave Sherlock first a lecture on the atrocities of the chicken industry and then a wonderful blow job.

He never commented on the fact that Sherlock had stopped cooking chicken or playing the violin but introduced Sherlock to love, and weed, and left him one day to save the world by going to Africa.

When he returned, he never even tried to contact Sherlock again.

*** 

Sherlock puts the potatoes on the heat. Potatoes are a much underestimated side dish. He rarely prepared them when cooking for love but today, they fit perfectly.

*** 

It has also been Sherlock who did the cooking when the cancer left Redbeard too weak to chew his ordinary food. It did not help in the end but left Sherlock with the feeling of being the only one in the family who gave all he had in order to save his life.

*** 

Meanwhile, Sherlock chops the vegetables. The cauliflower comes first. Victor's favourite, he cannot help but think. Sherlock himself always loathes the white curds for being impossible to be chopped into even pieces but Victor claims to love the bitter taste of it.

*** 

Victor Trevor. An artist with delicate hands and gentle lips. Apparently he had watched Sherlock at a take-away Chinese five nights in a row before finding the courage to talk to him. Wanted Sherlock to sit for him.

Sherlock was restless back then, a young Consulting Detective without anyone to consult. Victor was restless too, a young artist waiting for the inspiration for the one picture that would make him famous.

They fell for each other heads over heels. The sex was exceptionable. It took Sherlock eight months and one fierce fight to accept the fact that Victor truly loved him back.

After those eight months, Sherlock had been willing to give his life for Victor.

They moved together in a small flat in Montague Street. Sherlock did all the cooking, which was all right because Victor did all the washing. They spend days in bed and nights watching stars and when Victor was lost in his paintings Sherlock went out to solve a crime or two.

Life would have perfect if only - 

If only Victor had found his one inspiration. It never came, and Victor became restless again. He needed something to focus his mind soothe his nerves and found it with the drug dealers of the neighbourhood.

But he really loved Sherlock, and so he shared his cocaine with him. Sherlock was fighting his own demons at that time, a mind too sharp to calm down, and there was nobody at the Yard to listen to his brilliant deductions.

In retrospect it had been obvious that they were destined to fall apart spectacularly.

Victor overdosed twice, and both times only survived because Sherlock had been clean that time.

When Sherlock overdosed, Victor was high himself. If it hadn't been for Mycroft, Sherlock would have died.

Victor never forgave himself, and three weeks after Sherlock came back from detox, Victor left. Wanted to find himself and return when he would be able to be a stable partner.

He never returned until - 

*** 

The water for the potatoes is cooking violently and Sherlock curses himself a little. He reduces the heat and starts to pluck rosemary. John always does cruel things to rosemary, Sherlock thinks. Chops it in all, or uses dried rosemary that comes out of a dredger.

*** 

John. 

John appeared five weeks after Victor had left. The flat at Montague Street had been too big for Sherlock, too filled with memories. It was suffocating him with its emptiness. 

John.

If it had not been for Victor, or if he had met him later in life, or earlier, Sherlock would have fallen for him instantly. Well, he did fall for him instantly,but ignored it. And John seemed to be way too straight to act on his own attraction to Sherlock, so all was fine.

They were friends.

Sherlock never had friends before. And John did all the cooking.

And so there were eighteen months of cases and quarrels and “Brilliant” and feeling at home when being at home, and then Sherlock went and destroyed it and left.

The first time that Sherlock was the one who left someone. It did not feel better than being left.

Returning had not helped either, for there had been Mary, and a baby, and then Magnussen, and then what appeared to be Moriarty but had been only a copycat with delusions of grandeur, and then Mary had been careless and the baby had been lost and when all was over, John was still married to her.

*** 

He starts to decorate the table. Not his strength but not rocket science either. It always depend on who you are decorating for. Today, Sherlock had decided for what looked the minimal approach. Nice napkins, not folded in a special way, a bit of deco that looked plain but was extremely hard to get and fit the shade of the table cloth just perfectly.

The table looked like Sherlock did not put lots of thoughts and money into it. 

Perfect.

On his way back to the oven he notices a brush still lying underneath the cupboard.

*** 

He had fought hard to come to peace with the fact that John would never love him back and finally accepted that the love of his life would be unrequited for ever.

And then Victor returned. Was standing in 221b one night, without warning, when Sherlock jumped up the stairs, still drunk from a perfect case, with John right behind him even though Mary was waiting for him back in Kensington.

Victor was just standing there, smiling shyly, ignoring John. “I said I'd be back,” he whispered.

Loving two people was confusing.

All the old feelings for Victor came back instantly but that did not make the feelings for John vanish. 

It did not become any easier when John left Mary after spending an evening with Sherlock, discussing how fulfilling his relationship with Victor was. 

But Victor loved him and he loved Victor and the world was full of good sex and affection and being loved for a while.

Until Victor overdosed.

John was with him when he found Victor, sweat on his face, heart racing, fear in his eyes.

Afterwards, there were promises and apologies and emotional nights, and John's looks at Victor changed from something Sherlock could not name to something else Sherlock could not name.

Victor promised to remain clean and Sherlock promised not to deduce if it was true, for love does not survive suspicion. 

The next time he was high, Victor nearly burnt down 221b.

There were tears afterwards, and apologies, and when Sherlock told John that he wants to forgive Victor, John had thrown Sherlock out of his new flat in Glentworth Street.

*** 

Sherlock checks the table and the kitchen. Every thing is ready now. All three courses were waiting to be served. Sherlock's heart is beating in his throat. 

Because to be honest, this is not just dinner. This is planning your future.

When he hears the steps on the stairs, he swallows hard. He is downright nervous like hell.

*** 

“Please,don't leave me. I love you,” Victor begged. And Sherlock's heart had done something strange inside his chest.

*** 

There is a knock on the door. Sherlock's hands are wet. Ridiculous.

He crosses the distance with three long steps and opens the door before he can start wondering.

“Um, hi,” John says, a grin on his face and a ridiculous bouquet in his hands. “I was not sure if I interpreted the reason for your invitation right, so ...” His eyes fall onto the skilfully laid table and onto the look in Sherlock's face and his eyes grow soft. 

He opens his mouth again to say something but, really, they have done enough talking for the rest of their lives. So Sherlock gathers up all his might, takes John's face into his hands and kisses him.

And John kisses back. Again and again. They have years of missed opportunities to catch up and they are both equally aroused. And in love. The flutter of Sherlock's heart is almost painful and mixes with joy and hope and lust.

They never manage to eat the dinner Sherlock prepared all day but that is all right. Sherlock has a lifetime left to cook for John.


End file.
